Different Seasons(88)

Very close to sleep, drifting back and forth across its threshold, Morris thought: Perhaps I knew him in the camp.

That would be ironic indeed—what they called a “jest of God.”

What God? Morris Heisel asked himself again, and slept.

19

Todd graduated salutatorian of his class, just possibly because of his poor grade on the trig final he had been studying for the night Dussander had his heart attack. It dragged his final grade in the course down to 89, one point below an A-minus average.

A week after graduation, the Bowdens went to visit Mr. Denker at Santo Donato General. Todd fidgeted through fifteen minutes of banalities and thank-yous and how-do-you-feels and was grateful for the break when the man in the other bed asked him if he could come over for a minute.

“You’ll pardon me,” the other man said apologetically. He was in a huge body-cast and was for some reason attached to an overhead system of pulleys and wires. “My name is Morris Heisel. I broke my back.”

“That’s too bad,” Todd said gravely.

“Oy, too bad, he says! This boy has the gift of understatement!”

Todd started to apologize, but Heisel raised his hand, smiling a little. His face was pale and tired, the face of any old man in the hospital facing a life full of sweeping changes just ahead—and surely few of them for the better. In that way, Todd thought, he and Dussander were alike.

“No need,” Morris said. “No need to answer a rude comment. You are a stranger. Does a stranger need to be inflicted with my problems?”

“‘No man is an island, entire of itself—’ ” Todd began, and Morris laughed.

“Donne, he quotes at me! A smart kid! Your friend there, is he very bad off?”

“Well, the doctors say he’s doing fine, considering his age. He’s eighty.”

“That old!” Morris exclaimed. “He doesn’t talk to me much, you know. But from what he does say, I’d guess he’s naturalized. Like me. I’m Polish, you know. Originally, I mean. From Radom.”

“Oh?” Todd said politely.

“Yes. You know what they call an orange manhole cover in Radom?”

“No,” Todd said, smiling.

“Howard Johnson’s,” Morris said, and laughed. Todd laughed, too. Dussander glanced over at them, startled by the sound and frowning a little. Then Monica said something and he looked back at her again.

“Is your friend naturalized?”

“Oh, yes,” Todd said. “He’s from Germany. Essen. Do you know that town?”

“No,” Morris said, “but I was only in Germany once. I wonder if he was in the war.”

“I really couldn’t say.” Todd’s eyes had gone distant.

“No? Well, it doesn’t matter. That was a long time ago, the war. In another three years there will be people in this country constitutionally eligible to become President—President!—who weren’t even born until after the war was over. To them it must seem there is no difference between the Miracle of Dunkirk and Hannibal taking his elephants over the Alps”

“Were you in the war?” Todd asked.

“I suppose I was, in a manner of speaking. You’re a good boy to visit such an old man ... two old men, counting me.”

Todd smiled modestly.

“I’m tired now,” Morris said. “Perhaps I’ll sleep.”

“I hope you’ll feel better very soon,” Todd said.

Morris nodded, smiled, and closed his eyes. Todd went back to Dussander’s bed, where his parents were just getting ready to leave—his dad kept glancing at his watch and exclaiming with bluff heartiness at how late it was getting.

Two days later, Todd came back to the hospital alone. This time, Morris Heisel, immured in his body-cast, was deeply asleep in the other bed.

“You did well,” Dussander said quietly. “Did you go back to the house later?”

“Yes. I burned the damned letter. I don’t think anyone was too interested in that letter, and I was afraid ... I don’t know.” He shrugged, unable to tell Dussander he’d been almost superstitiously afraid about the letter—afraid that maybe someone would wander into the house who could read German, someone who would notice references in the letter that were ten, perhaps twenty years out of date.

“Next time you come, smuggle me in something to drink,” Dussander said. “I find I don’t miss the cigarettes, but—”

“I won’t be back again,” Todd said flatly. “Not ever. It’s the end. We’re quits.”

“Quits.” Dussander folded his hands on his chest and smiled. It was not a gentle smile ... but it was perhaps as close as Dussander could come to such a thing. “I thought that was in the cards. They are going to let me out of this graveyard next week ... or so they promise. The doctor says I may have a few years left in my skin yet. I ask him how many, and he just laughs. I suspect that means no more than three, and probably no more than two. Still, I may give him a surprise.”

Todd said nothing.

“But between you and me, boy, I have almost given up my hopes of seeing the century turn.”

“I want to ask you about something,” Todd said, looking at Dussander steadily. “That’s why I came in today. I want to ask you about something you said once.”